


Steps

by purple_cube



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 10:04:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3323435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_cube/pseuds/purple_cube
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The woods were once her refuge from the Games; now they're her refuge from herself. Steps - no matter how small - matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steps

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a drabble request for sixela872 on Tumblr, for the prompt "Break Me" (or, an angsty drabble). Trigger warnings (to be on the safe side) for descriptions of depressive and suicidal thoughts.

 

 

I could do it.

 

Today, with the sun shining and the birds singing. It seems as good a time as any. Because if the sun and the mockingjays can’t lift the weight that seems to lie so heavy on my chest, then what will?

 

I’ve been visiting the woods every day for over a week now, since Peeta came back. I wasn’t sure why the urge had been so strong at first; it was only on the third day that I realized. Watching Peeta eat the vegetable soup that Sae had prepared, I saw how hard he was having to concentrating to fill the spoon to the right level before lifting it to his mouth.

 

This was just as hard for him as it was for me.

 

So when Sae had left, I had to ask. “How do you do it? How do you keep going?”

 

He had shrugged, understanding the meaning behind my question but not knowing how to answer. “I don’t know,” he had eventually replied. “I put one foot in front of the other. And that first step always feels impossible, but once it’s over, the second one gets a little bit easier. And before I know it, I’ve managed to get myself out of bed. And then I have to start the battle all over again just to get dressed.”

 

We hadn’t talked after that – not until he had paused in the doorway with his hand against the frame, as if it was the only thing keeping him upright. “It feels a little easier when I bake,” he had said without turning around. “And when I paint. Dr. Aurelius told me to keep doing those.”

 

So I had returned to the woods, and I keep returning – because this is where it feels that little bit easier to take one step after another.

 

But today, my feet drag under the weight of my tired body. Today, the fog that has taken up residence in my mind refuses to shift even a fraction.

 

So maybe today _should_ be the day. Out here, in the place that once gave me life, first as a source of physical sustenance, and later as my psychological refuge from the Games. It seems somehow fitting.

 

I have my fishing net with me. Pulling it from my bag, I twist it between my hands until it resembles a rope. I could just hook around a branch of a tree, and, well, that would be all I need. It would be over.

 

Instead, the image of the twisted net in my fingertips is replaced with another, and Finnick’s voice plays in my ears. He’s teaching me how to make knots – the audio is from the Training Center, but it’s the rope that embodied his tender grip on sanity in District 13 that makes up the visual before my eyes.

 

I don’t know how much time passes, but eventually I stir to find that the net has unraveled in my hands. I take it as a sign, and slowly step down from the rocks before wading into the cool water of the lake. The fish have clearly grown accustomed to my absence, and it doesn’t take much time or effort to fill the net with enough young carp to take up Sae’s menu for a couple of days.

 

Satisfaction is an unfamiliar feeling, but it is welcome nonetheless. And despite the heavier weight of the bag slung over my shoulder, the walk home feels a little easier.

 

*

 

Prim visits me that night, once as a young, carefree girl in the arms of my father, and again as the healer-in-training that she became in District 13. Her smile isn’t as giddy and childish, but instead is caring and kind as she works in the infirmary, oblivious to my presence.

 

In the morning, I realize that she didn’t burn once that night, not like during all of the other nights since she was taken from me.

 

I turn onto my side and face the bedside table, where I have slowly gathered a pile of objects from around the house that remind me of Prim, and that I can glean some level of comfort from in the mornings. She would laugh and call me a squirrel, if she were here.

 

I wish… well, I wish for many things. But one thing that I wish for, which may not be completely impossible, is to remember every detail about my sister. Because there is so much that I have forgotten about my father – who has been reduced from being the most important person in my life to just a snapshot of memories that take less than a minute to run through – and I don’t want the same to happen to Prim.

 

I remember Peeta’s words from earlier in the week and concentrate on swinging one leg out of bed and planting a foot on the floor – then follow with the other. With as much energy as I can muster, I clench my fists, bury my knuckles into the thick blanket and push myself off and onto those same, unsteady feet.

 

The sound of a door closing from elsewhere in the house catches my attention. Sae or Peeta, or both, must be here for breakfast. With new resolve, I concentrate on the next challenge – getting dressed.

 

Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror before leaving the room, I backtrack to the dressing table and hastily pull my limp, greasy hair back and into a ponytail, adding “shower” to my mental to-do list for the day as I tick off the first two items – get out of bed, and get dressed.

 

Item number three on my list is breakfast. But as I sweep the room for a final time, my gaze falls on an object that rests against the bedside table, too large to fit on its surface. _The plant book_. It reminds me of Prim because of all the time that she spent watching me and Peeta preparing it. But it also reminds me of my father, and my mother too.

 

I retrace my steps to retrieve it before continuing. I find Peeta in the kitchen, unwrapping one of several loaves of bread with a linen cloth.

 

“Morning,” he greets me.

 

I stare, distracted, at the other loaves. There are enough to feed, well, the entire district at the moment. “Do you sell those?”

 

Peeta shakes his head. “Not exactly. I try to give them away. Some people are happy to take them. Others insist that they do something for me in return. Is it alright if I keep these here? Sae said that she’ll be back in a few minutes to pick them up and hand them out with lunch.”

 

His gaze falls on the book that I’m clutching by my side. “Is that…”

 

I nod. “Do you remember?”

 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “They’re good memories.”

 

“Real.”

 

He looks across at me with a small smile, satisfied with my conclusion.

 

“It wasn’t all bad, was it? Before…before the Quell. I mean, it _had_ to change, but maybe if things had been done differently –“

 

“Fewer people would be dead?” I finish for him.

 

His face falls. “I know it’s not a good way to think. But sometimes, I wonder what might have happened if _we_ had done things differently.”

 

He shakes his head, as if he can dislodge the thoughts. “It doesn’t matter now. They died and not us, and we have to deal with it.”

 

I agree – for the most part. “But we can’t just forget them.”

 

His voice is tired when he finally replies. “I don’t think we could forget even if we wanted to.”

 

We don’t talk during breakfast, and he leaves soon after – but his front door has only just clicked shut when I find myself racing toward it, the plant book tucked firmly under my arm.

 

He turns, startled, in the hallway of his quiet house as I burst through.

 

“I want to make another book,” I tell him breathlessly. “A memory book.”

 

The exertion seems to have drained all of my energy, and I stumble to the staircase to drop onto the bottom step. Peeta soon moves to sit beside me.

 

The plant book somehow ends up resting on both of our laps, its weight shared equally between us.

 

“It would help me,” I tell him. “Getting all of the memories out of my head would be good – then I might be able to let go of the fear that I’ll forget them, the way that I forgot so much about my father. If you want to draw or paint in the book, like you did with this one, then maybe it will help you too,” I suggest.

 

“Maybe,” he murmurs.

 

“And when it’s done,” I continue, “we could promise them – _all_ of them – that we’ll live because they couldn’t. We’ll try – for them. We’ll make them count.”

 

His tired eyes take on a new sheen, one that is full of emotion and life itself – something that I haven’t seen for a long time. He nods, slight at first, but soon becoming more determined.

 

“Where do we to start?”

 

 


End file.
